


Started with Armani - Part 3

by l_obsidienne



Series: Started with Armani [3]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, cute stuff, you know where this is going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 22:22:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9789731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_obsidienne/pseuds/l_obsidienne
Summary: Just something short that I thought of in the train.*Bride is slang for the model that starts the show.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just something short that I thought of in the train.  
> *Bride is slang for the model that starts the show.

“We’re on in 5”  
“Make sure she has the proper shoes!”  
“Make-up, final retouches please!”  
“Hair! Fix her bangs now please!”  
“Can I please have a glass of water?” You asked among the chaos and someone immediately came with a glass and a straw for you to take some sips. “Thank you.”  
The person who couldn’t have been older than 19 smiled and nodded at you before sticking the ring light back in your face so the make-up artist could check the details of your eye shadow and lipstick. Two more people were behind you tugging and pulling at your hair to make sure it would stay as it should. A heavy headpiece followed and more tugging and pulling to make the designer’s whim.  
All the lights, all the smells of perfume made that room unbearable, but you were known as being one of the best models to work with that never complained, so you toughened up. You felt your stomach churn and your lungs struggle to grasp every bit of air that they could. It will be tough to get that smell from your nose after the show. It felt weird – neither of these details bothered you before, but then again you didn’t really eat two tacos before a show before. Maybe that was a bad idea. That and the nerves – it was the first time your boyfriend would see you walk and you wanted to make him proud.  
“Y/n, tu es merveilleuse! Gorgeous! Beautiful!” the designer stepped behind you and put his hands on your shoulders, speaking in a heavy French accent.  
“Mersi, Jean-Paul!” you answered in French as well and smiled, sitting up when you got the ok. There were voices in the back speaking “60 seconds!” and you held your hand over your tightly laced corset, trying to catch a breath.  
“The bride* is ready!” an assistant called and came over to take your hand and guide you over to get a splash of perfume, which made you wince and make a face, then walked with you to your shoes and helped you get them on. You breathed heavily through your mouth, still holding your hand over your torso. You actually felt pale, and if not for the fifteen layers of make-up on your face you would look like a ghost, especially dressed in that white dress like… construction.  
“Places, everyone! We’re on in 10! Place, modeles! On commence!”  
That meant you had to walk behind the stage and then near the entrance. Another breath, praying that you wouldn’t throw up on the stage and when the countdown finished you put on your gameface, say one last prayer and start your strut. Being the one to open the show, you had no choreography to worry about – it was what they hired you for.  
Most designers looked for you because you were easy to work with, professional and didn’t complain about anything. You could be put through the most painful of shoes and clothes and you did your job. Your catwalk became famous because you knew how to put the garment in good light and knew how to pose and how long to pose, when to strut and when to walk slower, how to work the dress or how to make sure particular accessories were emphasized. Besides that, you never said anything bad about anyone and was always nice to the interns, the artists and the other models. Before Jumin, you were booked solid for years and now after Jumin designers had to fight for you since you preferred to also spend time with your very busy boyfriend. But you always had a soft spot for Jean-Paul. Him and House of Armani, for obvious reasons.  
It was your last thought when you reached the end of the runway and posed, froze three seconds, switched the pose, froze another three seconds, almost retched and your eyes widened and made an effort not to topple over. Twirl, strut back, stop at the middle, pose again, twirl, strut and walk backstage. Only when you were out of the public’s eye did you rush to a chair and sat down, calling fast for someone.  
“Corset. Please!” you almost begged and someone came behind you to untie you and loosen it up a bit, You took your shoes off and breathed, fanning yourself with your hand and someone came with a lemonade over holding the straw for you. You sipped and then shook your head, putting your arm on the table and your forehead on your forearm, trying to regain your composure.  
“Ma belle! Are you ok?” Jean-Paul came to ask you and put a hand on your shoulder. “Can you do the final walk?”  
“Yes!” You nodded. But you knew you would’ve preferred to back down. You were aware that he wouldn’t be too upset with you, he knew you well enough to know you were a professional, but you braved through it either way. A second later you were back on your feet and in the shoes, the corset laced again. The other models lined up for the final walk and Jean-Paul took your hand to walk with you on stage at the end. All smiles, both of you, even though you felt like throwing up. You walked back in on a round of applause, all the models being congratulated for a great show. You thanked Jean-Paul and everyone else who complimented you along the rest and as soon as you had the corset untied. That breath of perfume and sweat filled air got you over the edge. You dropped the shoes and wanted to run to the bathroom, but the room became dark and the last face you saw was Jumin’s who caught you before everything turned black.  
You woke up in a white room that thankfully did not smell of any perfume except a very familiar one which made you smile. You turned to him and saw him talking to the doctor and you stood up.  
“Jumin? What happened?” you asked him in a weak voice and the doctor came close to you and smiled.  
“Hello, miss. You look better already.”  
“Thank you, Doctor.” You smiled and looked to Jumin who sat next to you and held your hand.  
“I will let you two talk.” The doctor bowed softly and left the room.  
Jumin quickly turned to you and hugged you, stroking your back.  
“You gave us a scare…” he murmured, moving to cup your cheeks and smile.  
“Yeah, tacos, perfumes, corsets and a bunch of people in a small smelly room wasn’t a good combination. I’m sorry for worrying you.” You moved your head on his shoulder and allowed yourself a moment to be babied. “Did the doctor say anything?”  
“Just dehydration and exhaustion. You can check out anytime you want. They took some blood, but the results are not in yet.” But he made no move to help you out of the bed, instead placed his chin on your head.  
“Then can we go back to the hotel?” You asked and smiled when he nodded.  
In the car, you leaned on him and hugged his arm. You did feel a bit bad to be clinging to him like that, though he did not seem to mind. He had his phone in his hand and he was typing something on it, occasionally looking at you to make sure you are alright. Back at the hotel you slumped on the bed and grabbed your phone to call the designer and apologize for everything. It was a five minute conversation in which he asked you countless times if you were ok and you assured him that everything was ok and you were well taken care of.  
“Ok, Jean-Paul! I’ll see you for the fall collection.” You laughed softly when he rejoiced and confirmed that his people will call your people. “Thank you, you too. Have a good day.” Jumin walked in the room and sat next to you, smiling and giving you a cup of warm tea.  
“Everything allright?”  
“Yeah, everything is good. He was incredibly nice and worried.” You smiled and moved to sit up and drink some of the tea Jumin brought you.  
“I postponed the flight for the day after so you can have some time to rest.” He smiled, stroking your hand.  
“Jumin, that wasn’t necessary.” You turned towards him. “I am sure you’re busy.”  
“No, it’s fine. I pay a lot of people to do things, they will not die a day without me. You however, are more important right now.”  
You wanted to jump on him right there and then and you did so, flinging one leg over his and straddling his lap, but were interrupted by the telephone. And you wouldn’t have answered but there was a foreign number calling and the only person calling you was the doctor. Jumin encouraged you to answer as well but refused to let you climb off him, running a hand from your knee to your hip and back down.  
“Bonjour” you answered in French and smiled. “Yes, this is she.”  
You listened to the doctor and nodded at his words as he gave you your results and recommendations on how to take care of yourself. You bit on the side of your index finger and nodded, thanking the doctor and hanging up. And only after you placed the phone down did it dawn on you and you looked at him with lips parted and wide eyes. His face fell in worry and he grabbed your limp hands and kissed your forehead, whispering against it.  
“Baby, what’s wrong?” he asked concerned, but tried to calm you down regardless.  
You stood in silence another minute and then pulled away from his lips, looking at your phone. “I should call Jean Paul and tell him I can’t make the fall collection.” Which did not help him stop worrying.  
“Well, unless he wants to pay for two and has a dress that would fit me.” You added with a smile and he blinked twice then hugged you and pushed you on your back, getting on top of you and smooching your lips and cheeks and forehead all over.


End file.
